“This poem tries to enact the communal exhilaration of a day spent with new friends in the south of France. It felt as if we were a family for one day, and as the foreign visitors being taken on an expedition to a secret mushroom-gathering spot, my wife and I naturally took on the role of the children. I was recently reminded of Philip Larkin’s idea of poems as acts of preservation, and I think I was moved to write this poem because I felt there was something special I wanted to hold on to. Like all poems, this one takes on its own shape, language, and metaphors that do not correspond exactly to the day, but hopefully help to preserve some part of it.”—Jeffrey Harrison

Christopher and Helen, our new expatriate friends,meet us at their favorite winerywhere they fill their plastic jerry cans from hosesexactly like the ones at gas stations,as though they were planning to go back home to Aixand treat their lawnmower to a nice red.Instead, they take us in their forest green Peugeotto the home of their old friend Brigittein a village at the foot of Mont Ventoux—actually, not a village, Brigitte corrects me,but “un hameau,” a hamlet. The Frenchare exacting about such distinctions, but Brigittehas a kind, mischievous smile. Back in the car,we tear along a series of rutted, stony roadsthat web the mountainside, with Brigittedirecting Christopher, “à droite, à gauche, encore à gauche,”until we come to a grove of pines, cedars, and oaks,where she says the mushrooms are hidden.We fan out under the trees, searching the slope,while Brigitte, looking elfin in her orange hoodie,waves a stick like a wand, pokes at the dried pine needlesor the dead leaves under the wild boxwood bushes,and sings, “I think there are some over here,”like a mother leading her toddlers toward the Easter eggs.We laugh and follow after her, cutting the stemswith a tarnished knife she lends us, warning“Faites attention,” because the blade is sharp.And gradually we fill our plastic shopping bagswith gnarled orange caps, stained green,which, much later, back in the States, I learnare called Lactarius deliciosus ororange-latex milky, like a shade of paint,the field guide commenting “edible, althoughnot as good as the name deliciosus suggests”—but we already suspect that (they look awful),and we will later unload most of ours onChristopher and Helen who clearly think of themas a delicacy… but right now we’rehaving fun just hunting for themamong the sunspots on the forest floor,filling our bags, and shouting through the treesto one another, the whole afternoon gatheringinto the giddy moment that Brigitte keepscalling us back to—and it’s delicious.